


wash their hands of the world

by ephemeralstar



Series: people hurt us (or they vanish) [1]
Category: John Wick (Movies), Saints Row
Genre: Diners, Gen, Old Friends, Side Story of The Vanish 'Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-04 23:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14031618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralstar/pseuds/ephemeralstar
Summary: “Do you think before you do it?” It’s Tuesday, almost 9pm, John doesn’t come to Steelport often, but when he does, he has to see The Boss. He likes them well enough, known them for long enough, and it’s always interesting to see what trouble they’re in this week.“Do what?” It’s Tuesday, probably, The Boss has no real grasp on the days of the week anymore. They’re halfway through their third cider, burger sitting with it’s little toothpick still in it. John’s a long-time friend, a good fighter, and a damn good marksman. They’d trust him with their life, even if he doesn’t exactly feel the same way. The Boss is self-aware enough to know people like John wouldn’t trust them as far as he can throw them.





	wash their hands of the world

**Author's Note:**

> unedited!! an idea that came to me at midnight. have fun I guess.

“Do you think before you do it?” It’s Tuesday, almost 9pm, John doesn’t come to Steelport often, but when he does, he has to see The Boss. He likes them well enough, known them for long enough, and it’s always interesting to see what trouble they’re in this week.

“Do what?” It’s Tuesday, probably, The Boss has no real grasp on the days of the week anymore. They’re halfway through their third cider, burger sitting with it’s little toothpick still in it. John’s a long-time friend, a good fighter, and a damn good marksman. They’d trust him with their life, even if he doesn’t exactly feel the same way. The Boss is self-aware enough to know people like John wouldn’t trust them as far as he can throw them.

“Any of it.” John offered, smiling as the waitress set down his food in front of him. She smiled back, before hr expression dropped and she gave a solid nod to the Boss. The Boss grinned blithely, pulling the toothpick from their burger and picking their teeth with it. After a moment, they looked back at John, expression blank.

“Any of what?” The Boss, while a terrifying criminal mastermind, was often prone to bouts of ‘ _blonde moments_ ’. It could be warranted, he didn’t know their natural hair colour, he’s not sure anyone did, the iridescent purple certainly wasn’t it.

“It.” John’s expression didn’t change.

“It?” The Boss frowned at John across the table, raising their cider slowly to their lips. After a swig, they look away. John does not. “The killing?”

“The killing.” He conceded.

“Not really.” Another pause, this time each of them take the moment to have a bite of their respective foods. The Broken Shillelagh didn't offer much in the way of fine dining; the Boss’s burger was starting to sag while John was more or less just moving sweet potato fries around his bowl. Boss steals one of John’s fries and scoops an upsetting amount of aioli onto it, adding, “Not my job.” Before shoving the entire chip into their mouth.

“The thinking?” John asked, picking up a chip and biting off half of it and putting it back onto his plate.

“The thinking about the killing.” Boss clarifies. Something about that doesn't sit right with John.

“You're the Boss. Shouldn't it be your job?”

“That’s my name, well, nickname. It’s not an official title.” Boss shrugs, taking off the top bun of their burger and pulling off the tomato one disc at a time.

“That's not what I heard.” John ate the second half of his chip and picked up another, shifting the others around the bowl.

“Well it's been a while since you wore purple, Johnny.” As soon as the nickname left the Boss’s mouth, they flinched, nose wrinkling, taking a swig of cider to clear the sudden bitter taste from their mouth.

“Don't call me that,” it's a knee-jerk reaction, sharp, avoiding the Boss’s gaze, “and I never wore purple.”

“Metaphorically, John, wore purple in your heart, were canonized.” After a moment of thought, the Boss leant back in their chair, squinting at John as the chair creaked with the slight strain. “The shade just made you look all flushed and tired, if I recall.” An actual flush rises on John's cheeks and he ducked his head, avoiding eye contact again.

“I don't have the right undertones for it.” He agreed quietly, and ate another chip. There was sudden gunfire from outside, John’s knuckles went white, gaze turning shallow at the sound of a scream. Boss leaned forward once more and ate a slice of tomato, putting the bun back on their burger.

“You could have been Boss, you know?” The Boss looked up, nonchalant, to which John frowned. Without breaking eye contact, they lift their burger to their lips and take an enormous bite, letting their statement hang in the air. The chatter in the bar was all but a familiar buzz, a background noise to the sharp gunfire and the sound of Boss chewing. “Gat was pretty enamoured with your skills.” They told him after swallowing audibly, and taking another sip. John smiled slightly, shaking his head.

“Maybe in the Stilwater days, but Pierce and I never really got along.” He chuckled. There was an explosion outside, and Boss’s expression contorted into one of rage, standing so suddenly that their chair skittered back and hit the floor. In a flash, there was an SMG in their hand, where they had pulled it from, John doesn’t know.

“Fucking hell.” The Boss growled, turning and stalking to the door. The other patrons had gone silent, watching with bated breath, and John’s hand was already on his pistol, though he knew The Boss could handle themself. Everyone watched the Boss fire down the street, scream obscenities, and order the Morningstar goons to get lost before something worse happened to them. “Disre-fucking-spectuful.” They muttered, picking up their overturned chair and taking a seat again. Shaking their head, they stowed their gun and picked up their burger once more, tearing through it like a lion devouring prey.

The sudden exertion had left Boss a little dishevelled, a lock of their perfectly sculpted hair falling in front of their face. It was interesting to watch, to realise that behind their often callous disregard there was an apex predator lying in wait, with training and precision that most people could only _dream_ of. A soldier's training but with neither morals nor supervision, and the ability to command an army; the Boss was a hurricane, a kindred spirit to John’s own typhoon of destruction, even if it wasn't often obvious.

“Why am I here, Boss?” John asked, sitting back in his chair. He hated calling them that, wanted to ask their real name, but knew they wouldn’t answer truthfully. They never did when it came to that question.

“You were in town.” Boss said around a mouthful of food.

“I was on a job.” John said, food mostly untouched. “I still am.”

“So call me sentimental.” The Boss let of of their burger to make a wavy gesture in the air and half of their burger fell from the bun onto the plate in an unsatisfying heap. “I missed you. You haven't been in town for a while.”

“You… missed me?” John turned the idea over in his mind, considered just how long it had been, and regarded the Boss with something akin to curiosity.

“Don't give me that look, _yes,_ I have human emotions, I'm allowed to feel things.” They rolled their eyes and gave up on the burger, putting it down and picking at it with their fingers. “I've known you for over a decade, John, you invited me to your wedding.”

“Has it really been that long?” He asked, and the Boss actually laughed, and impolite sound with a snort at the end, but it made John smile, if only a little. They both sobered up at the sound of a distinctively Luchadore yell.

“Do you think you can take an hour or two out of your schedule to help me do a bit of spring cleaning?” The Boss asked, pushing their plate away. John's expression darkened, a sudden anticipation crackling throughout the bar as he too pushed away his plate of mostly untouched food.

“Its always nice to get back to basics.” Was a good agreement as any.


End file.
